


They Breathe the Ruins That Remain

by peppersnake



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, summary makes it sound sad its not sad i promise, this is my first fic please have mercy on me thanks, w a flashback of the bookshop fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 19:19:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20765609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppersnake/pseuds/peppersnake
Summary: "I just wish that—""Don't wish, angel. They do you no good," Crowley stated sternly, somewhat of a threat. "They only stick into your skin and hurt you."Aziraphale swallowed, hard. The same could be said for you, he thought, and then quickly willed it out of his mind.





	They Breathe the Ruins That Remain

**Author's Note:**

> ok this is deadass my first fic ever feedback and comments r greatly appreciated thank u have a nice day. tumblr is @peppersnak3 :-)  
(also how do i get italicized text in the summary lol)

There, within the library, everything ablaze; the smell of burning paper, the absence of that angelic, ethereal,  _ forbidden _ aura. That fire, like blood & gore, how it pierced into his soul— _ how it seeped into every crevice and crease of his being _ —the way the flame had clawed out his humanity & hope, replacing it with some rubbish ashen muck devoid of love. This awareness, that his lifespan of thousands of years accompanied alongside this angel, is not of fine wine but rather a bitter and unforgiving vodka, one that burns going down and leaves you with self-hatred and longing. He was coming to terms with his best friend's demise. The only person who ever (or at least tried to) understand him. Aziraphale, a name he has screamed into this empty husk of a burning building until his throat declared hoarse and uncooperative. Aziraphale, someone who held and handled Crowley's delicate framework of a body as if he was examining one of his prized first edition prophetic books. Aziraphale, a name that grew more and more distant as Crowley saw the only remnants the angel left to burn to ash. Aziraphale, guardian of the East gate, that damned angel. He was just mouthing it now, no voice left nor no strength. He could see them, or imagine, at the very least: Sandalphon, Uriel, Michael, and  _ Gabriel,  _ watching in the clouds, they breathe the ruins that remain.

* * *

Aziraphale took a ginger sip of his wine and pursed his lips. "You waited so long to tell me, dear. Why?"

An honest shrug and a drunken pout are all Crowley gave him in response. He raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to say something, but dumbfoundedly shook his head and threw his hands in the air, nearly spilling over his wine on the angel's newly-magically-restored sofa. He felt the divine creature's thousand hidden eyes bore into his turned head like a theater audience anticipating his soliloquy. 

"It all seemed a bit, er," Crowley gestured at something in the air with a grimace on his face, trying to grasp for something that wasn't there and wasn't coming. "Traumatizing." He concluded, throwing aforementioned hand on his knee and leaning back with another shrug, extending his other bony arm over the sofa as his leg spread seemed to take up the entire room. "For you, I mean—your bookshop, and all."

It always amazed Aziraphale how something so delicate—a glass figure, Crowley was—could exhibit such a destructive, chaotic and intimidating behavior. 

As such, the angel widened his eyes and leaned forward a bit, " _ Traumatized?  _ A few burnt material possessions are not trauma, Crowley," he paused briefly to swallow and lick his lips from the bitterness of the wine. A simple action, but one the demon nevertheless fails to notice every detail of. "Not only are you Fallen which is a dreadfully traumatic experience in and of itself, but you witnessed what may as well have been my death." 

Yes, Crowley knew both of these to be truly traumatizing experiences for him. But he simply wasn't good with these matters. His specialty was bottling up his disturbances, anything else was outside of his division. He stammered soundlessly, cautiously waving around his now empty wine glass gesturing to nothing, nothing at all. Aziraphale must have noticed this apparent struggle, as he planted a soft hand on Crowley's panicked, apprehensive one. This hand, the demon thought, held so much power. The simplest of gestures and yet it speaks a thousand words of understanding and reassurance, so much so that it brought this unholy individual to tears. The angel brought his hand down, gently pried the glass from his former enemy's hand and walked both empty cups to his back office, an action that translated to  _ that's quite enough for tonight. _

* * *

And it wasn't spoken of for another three weeks. But here, Aziraphale organizing and reorganizing his collection of first edition Virginia Woolf books (a rather pleasant woman, yes, gone too soon, he believed) and Crowley, sunbathing serpentine on the windowsill, did the angel feel tension to bring it up again. 

"Er," he tried, cleared his throat, and went again, "I just wanted to say sorry. For my tone."

The snake uncoiled like smoke erupting from a half-burnt cigarette, and just as quickly a lanky & angular man appeared to now be leaning against the wall. Head cocked, an eyebrow arched, a slight squint in sinfully golden eyes.

Aziraphale elaborated, "That night, you telling me about, well, the fire, and—"

"Ack, you're still on that, angel?" Crowley guffawed, waving him away.

"I just—I seemed quite  _ rude  _ really, and I know how difficult it must have been for you to, to, to—" He stood with his mouth agape, eyes darting across the floor, looking for the words to say. "Open up to me." He concluded, shrugging.

Crowley sighed and bowed his head. It was sometimes painful how heartfelt this angel was. 

"Don't worry about it. It was probably the shock of taking it all in." Crowley wasn't too good at consoling him. His voice fell flat and monotone. If he was speaking to anyone else they would have taken that tone as sarcasm, but Aziraphale knew him better than that.

"I just wish that—"

"Don't wish, angel. They do you no good," Crowley stated sternly, almost like a threat. "They only stick into your skin and hurt you." 

Aziraphale swallowed, hard.  _ The same could be said for you _ , he thought, and then quickly willed it out of his mind. 

* * *

Crowley only spoke on the matter once more when they both lay tangled drunkenly across the off-white chaise longue. 

"I'm sorry I'm bad at talking." He said suddenly, after several moments of silence save for the occasional hiccup and long sigh.

"Dear?" Aziraphale looked up from where he had once comfortably let his head relax on the impossibly unwelcoming cold yet blazing friendly warmth that was Crowley's chest.

"About my feelings," Crowley grimaced as if realizing what he'd said. "God, that word sounds so— _ gooey. _ " He hissed, with extra vowel emphasis on that last word.

In any other situation, he would have commented on that word choice, but they were kind of on a roll here. 

"It's alright, dear," He ran a tender hand through his hair. "Talk to me when you're ready, otherwise it... it won't be  _ genuine _ ." He smiled a perfect smile that sent a wonderful sensation to whatever the equivalent was to a heart within Crowley's hidden metaphysical form. But they didn't talk about it again, not ever. There was a new, unspoken mutual understanding there, one similar to that of Crowley's experience being Fallen. And Aziraphale, like the angel he was, respected that. A lot of their relationship was, one must realize, of mutual agreement, establishment, and harmony. Until the End of Time, it seemed, that that would remain. With that, Crowley pressed a kiss into Aziraphale's achromic curls and they both joined each other in a hazy dream.


End file.
